


What I Got

by 2c31h42n2o6



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: M/M, direct quotes from transcripts, garak is a total spy, julian is a hella good actor, no sex or smut or otherwise, slowburn, they will eventually get together i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-06 22:43:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12827679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2c31h42n2o6/pseuds/2c31h42n2o6
Summary: Julian and Elim take refuge in a Cardassian space station run by the Federation hoping to keep their secrets from the public.  For them to stop dancing around each other would require either bravery or stupidity.  It's been said the two aren't mutually exclusive.Follows the plot of DS9, no major discrepancies other than some OC Julian and his liaison with an Elim Garak.





	1. Elim

The Federation's take over of the station had not been news to Garak. He knew that the Federation, the saviors and protectors of morality in the Alpha Quadrant, was interested in expanding its empire and Bajor was a very key position indeed. To most of the Alpha Quadrant the Federation was seen as a great power but often resented for its naive belief that everyone should be governed under principles it dictated. Declaring itself the moral epitome of the Quadrant made certain cultures standoffish, notably the Klingons, Romulans, and of course, Cardassians. The fact that it deemed itself so righteous was in the end, what made Garak's hand a little easier to play.

Garak's exile kept him from his home, but also made him a target. To stray very far from Cardassian space would risk the potential occurrence of running into someone he used to know. Anyone who knew him would not be someone he would want to interact with. So with the station as close to home as he could be, he was mildly appreciative for the Federation. Had the station simply been returned to Bajor, the Bajoran trial he would have no doubt endured would have been far less pleasant than one he would have received on Cardassia. At least there he would have been given a quick death. The Bajorans felt they were in need of justice for their suffering, and to them, any Cardassian wasn't worthy of an easy death. So the federation had granted him one kindness, to stave off the eventual Bajoran backlash of his continued residence on what was now being called Deep Space 9. With all of their federation principles, they could not force a simple tailor to vacate a Federation Space Station, especially one with such a clean record.

Still, Garak was no fool, and while the federation could only delay the inevitable, he was still at risk as long as he was on the station. That meant he had to be ready for the eventual violation of his Cardassian rights. No doubt several Bajorans who had passed his shop today had been in the resistance and were most likely planning his demise at this very moment. He'd need some sort of protection, some sort of assurance that should harm come to him, someone would bat an eye.

Tain, in all his talk of self-reliance, had always protected his operatives when they faced a situation that they were not fit to handle themselves, or that went past their capabilities of self-protection. There had been safe houses and contacts on relatively every planet where, if faced with something unexpected by the Order, he could be extracted. If extraction wasn't permissible under the circumstances, at the very least there was a place he could go to update the Order and receive instructions and any medical aid that was deemed necessary. The back of his left leg still ached from a particularly long operation where he had been thankful for the contact, a retired doctor who owed the Order a favor for misplacing a file that could have led to a malpractice suit.

Garak ran over his options. Doubtless no remaining contacts he knew of would be willing to help him, and Tain had likely changed the codes to the safe houses the day of his exile, so those were both out. Making new contacts seemed unlikely, especially if he wanted to keep up the guise of tailor. The security chief had a reputation for justice. He knew better than to challenge the men who believed in justice, because occasionally, the ends could justify the means, and he didn't want to give him cause to believe there were any means he should be achieving. He would have to find someone reliable and dependable within the limits of his cover which, unfortunately, would severely limit what he could do on the station. If he wanted to stay alive, he would have to avoid as many potentially dangerous encounters as possible, and limit any amount of interaction with people beyond his "simple tailoring business." Regardless of what Tain and Cardassia thought of him, he still loved his homeland and would one day return, but until then his main priority was finding a person who could help him in dangerous situations and offer either protection or aid. Preferably a Starfleet Officer since they ran the station and one of their own would hold more weight than a Bajoran Officer. He'd have to keep an eye out.

Until then, Garak planned to stay in public as often as possible, ideally under the watch of the Federation Security. The irony didn't escape him, the fact that he was safest in the hands of the enemy.


	2. Julian

Bashir was grateful for the private quarters on the star ship, he knew that occasionally crewmen were asked to share and he loathed the breach of privacy. It was hard enough keeping a secret at the academy, having to second guess every answer so that he remained at the top, but not unbelievably so. While he looked forward to his assignment he was appreciative for this time alone he had, so he could prepare himself for what he was going to be asked to do. He'd spent years crafting an outward appearance that was naive and respectable at the same time. He was glad that his brilliance surprised people, that they thought he was less intelligent that he was, because that meant his façade was working. Yes, he had to remain a respectable starfleet officer, so the charade couldn't go too far, however, if he came off a touch ignorant that wasn't completely unhelpful. When it had to count he felt guilty that people didn't know his secret because he couldn't be the asset they needed but in the long run it was better if no one found out at all. After all, he'd kept it this long, what was to say he couldn't keep it forever. 

They'd be arriving in a couple hours, he didn't have much time left before he'd have to watch his every move, sensor his every action. It was going to get tiring, but hopefully, as long as he kept smiling, he'd make it believable. After all, if he'd gotten through the academy, he could get through this. 

The doctor felt himself getting restless at the thought of the impending departure, he knew this would likely be his last bout of peace and couldn't stand the thought of wasting any of it before it would all be dictated by his facade. His nerves kept him pacing the length of his quarters, which were mildly bland but not altogether unpleasant. He was thankful for the shower at the very least. That and the database.

Julian knew he was about to spend the next years of his life aboard a Cardassian space station of Cardassian design and yet found himself lacking knowledge of the race that built it beyond a single book he had read by Alket, a prime example of Cardassian enigma tales. He'd not found it particularly interesting, though it wasn't exactly disagreeable. Bashir preferred something layered in moral dispute. He wanted to learn something about humanity from each book he read, gain a deeper understanding of himself. Not the state. Bashir was fairly certain he knew how the state worked enough to know how to get around it, how to avoid its ever watchful eye. Bashir knew how the state functioned out of necessity because he was not so foolish as to think he could avoid his punishment forever. Hopeful, but not foolish.

"Computer," he paused momentarily to consider his options, "play something by Eahitn." As an afterthought he added, "And list all known works of Shoggoth."

 

Hours later, after he had had a reasonable update in Cardassian literature, music, architecture, history, and overall culture, he made his way to the mess hall. It would not bode well to have to establish his appearance upon the station. No, far better to single out a potential colleague and have them build his appearance for him, that way he could avoid unnecessary legwork. He sat down at a table far enough to the middle so as not to beg company, but to the side enough to offer potential private conversation. Taking up his pad and affecting an amiable if somewhat distractible atmosphere he began looking over his PAD, Deka tea in hand. 

"I see someone has been reading up on our new hosts." A woman with a thin face whose hair was pulled back in a professional manner smiled, her eyes twinkling with an unsaid joke.

"Ah, and hosts are something you're familiar with, yes?" The spots were hard to miss and Bashir was pleased to have startled a laugh from what appeared to be a young woman.

"So I see the station's doctor has an eye for the obvious. What gave it away, the spots?" She sat down across from him and offered her hand, which he took, making sure to plaster a grin on his face, perhaps a little suggestive, but she hadn't seemed to mind.

"Jadzia Dax." Her grip was as firm and steady as her voice. "Julian Bashir." He made sure she could read the smile in his voice as he continued. "There, now that formalities are out of the way why don't you tell me what a lovely girl like yourself is doing in a place like this." He overplayed it enough for her to take the joke and was grateful she didn't immediately move on anything. There had been some nurses in the past that had mistaken his flair for the dramatic humor as actual advances. None of which had ended well.

"Ah Doctor, so predictable. Even at the farthest reach of the galaxy you find yourself seated across from a woman." There's a genuine smile at a sentence uttered as though the situation has already become a common occurrence. He supposed that he'd do best not to disappoint.

"I would not wish for any companion in the world but you." He saw astonishment flicker in her eyes at his words, obviously thinking him to be unversed in the finer works of old Earth authors. He made a resolution to use quotes sparingly, so as to avoid actual intrigue on her part. His eidetic memory meant he could quote the whole passage.

"I didn't know Shakespeare was in the Academy curriculum." Of course some of his larger works were, such as Hamlet and MacBeth, this was no doubt common knowledge.

"That one was in thanks to my mother. But enough about me, I must say I find myself unable not to ask, as a man of medicine you must know I have several thousand questions I'd like to ask you, though you won't have to answer any of them if you'll tell me some of the more embarrassing stories I'm sure you've lived through." They were all smiles today and Julian rightfully assumed he'd be with this woman until after departure. Oh well, he thought, I can continue my cultural studies at another time, because at that moment Jadzia was explaining a very interesting situation with a Tellurite, Betazoid, pineapple, Bat'leth, and deflector array.


	3. Elim

There was a truth, depending on who told it, that Garak guarded with his life, what little was left. He could see those around him pondering this truth. He could see it in their calculating eyes, weighing the rumors, or their mouths hidden behind hands, debating conflicting information. They claimed to have heard the truth from a friend of a friend of a vendor of an acquaintance of a man who supposedly shared a drink with a very drunk Cardassian who told him. This truth had been twisted and exaggerated, comically so. Every morning Garak woke to a new reason for his exile. He had to give some of them credit, they were getting more creative by the day. 

He could count the number of people who knew his truth on one hand and still have fingers left over. Everyone else knew a variation, a redacted format. The parts they thought were true were false and the parts that were false were rightly so. The only common ground that anyone seemed to agree on was that the great and feared Obsidian Order had played a role in his expulsion. On average, Garak himself started two new rumors a month, just to pick up the slack when there were low points in the transport traffic. He was thankful that very few rumors even got close to the events that had played out, and when someone got close to the truth, or a Cardassian with a relatively high clearance level came to the station he quickly spun out a couple extra lies to misdirect everyone. He was just pleasantly surprised he never actually got confronted about his previous expertise. Supposed expertise. 

That was until the Federation took over Terok Nor and began slandering it as Deep Space 9. Drunken officers ranting down the promenade, mouthing off obscenities at the only "Cardie" left aboard. Obviously the Cardies had left them not only a defective station, but one of their defective people as well. 

However, a single man seemed to stand out from the battle hardened phaser toting combat ready Starfleet Officers. A man who wore a smile and bounced on his feet, but whose eyes were just a shade off from his teeth. He should have been fooled. Garak shouldn’t have noticed, he hadn’t actually intended to notice. 

A Thursday night on the promenade, an entire group of Starfleet Officers had made their way to the replimat, obviously not in the mood to put up with that Ferengi. He’d been nursing his drink and reading an old enigma tale when they’d sauntered over, all combadges and requisitioned boots. He’d been vaguely listening to the conversation, but it wasn’t all that interesting, nothing of use, when he noticed one of the men eyeing him over his drink. The man had one of those hard faces, bones that could cut duranium. The eyes got hard when they landed on him, a poorly bridled fury beneath a marble exterior. He’d decided that the odds of a confrontation would only increase the longer he stayed, so he carefully stood, left his drink on the replicator and began to leave when he felt the man rise behind him. Years of training taught him this was not good, especially for a simple tailor who would have no knowledge of where the carotid artery was.

It was then that he heard another man stand, one whom his eyes had glanced over because he fit the cliche and had been labeled boring and standard starfleet. It was this man who stood up when the other did and stared him down. Garak could tell that the first man was weighing his options and Garak tried to make no sudden moves, retrieving his pad slowly. The second man who was in a hideous blue uniform and had hair like feathers had eyes of steel. He radiated calm and from what Garak could tell, was the new CMO on the station. Of course a man who valued all life would have no trouble using his starfleet morals to defend the poor helpless Cardassian. It would go against the Charter not to help him.

“Sit down crewman. Now is not the time or the place.” The voice was what startled Garak. It was supposed to sound congenial, even vaguely suggestive as to a tone that could simply imply “Not here. Just wait.” But to the trained ear of an operative there was a challenge. A subconscious challenge that very few people mastered to the point where the other person didn’t even know it was being implied. The crewman sat down with a curious look on his face, obviously not realizing what was really going on. Curious.

It had been years since he’d looked into eyes he couldn’t immediately place. When he looked upon the doctor-- Bashir. When he looked upon Bashir he watched as the steel was clouded over, dulled by what he saw every time a fresh cadet boarded. The unsettling part was, he knew the game now. He’d seen the tritanium core and knew the movements to be fake. He’d looked himself in the mirror during some off world visits to planets in critical political situations and seen the very same figure reflected in the glass. 

He nodded his thanks and returned to his shop. Bashir had sat down and started a conversation with the Trill. He could see the others trying to piece together what had happened but everyone was missing a key piece. Bashir had seen the tension and had the forethought to realize that if he’d been any more lenient in his resolve, Garak would have been followed from the moment he stood to leave. 

Obviously Doctors were intelligent, they had to be. But to watch as a man purposely covered up his intellect, shrouded it in hazy and banal ideals, it was thrilling. It was a challenge.


	4. Julian

He’d been sitting in front of his terminal for an hour and was absolutely aware he was irrationally angry. He knew that being this far out from Earth would give him the space and time to conduct actual research, not to mention ports where he could purchase or have shipped any medical supplies he’d need, but that didn’t take away from the perpetual frustration of an elusive answer. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until his vision started to dot the darkness with what could be called stars. Julian wasn't so conceited to think he could solve all of Bajor’s medical problems just because of he was starfleet, but he hoped to be of some use and lend them his genetically engineered capabilities. 

He felt the urge the throw his pad across the room but settled for tossing it carelessly on the desk before he stood to go have a chat with O’Brein. His replicator hadn't been functioning lately and he'd been forced to take meals at the replimat more often than he'd like. He supposed he should try to befriend the surly man, but felt guilty about how he had to go about it. He'd rather not constantly bother the man, he knew he appreciated silence, but Jadzia had him pinned as a ladies man and that's who he'd have to play. Not that he didn't like women, but he'd never be able to tell them his secret and so he rarely went after them with gusto. More like he felt an obligation and always let them end it before it got too serious. He did like Jadzia, and she could tell there was something off about his actions and his actual wealth of knowledge, trills could sense that sort of thing. Even know how many hosts a trill had had by looking them in the eyes. He supposed if anyone he'd met so far was to piece him together it'd be her. 

Well actually, if he was a betting man he'd have a couple strips on that Cardassian tailor. He thought he was being discrete, but after Julian stepped in with the man at the replimat he'd been keeping an eye on him keeping an eye on Julian. It was strange, to watch a person who was watching you, but ultimately necessary. He was good. Obviously Julian wasn't supposed to know, and he probably wouldn't have if it hadn't been for the look the man gave him, the one of recognition. 

No one had ever looked at him like that. With such, understanding. Actually, he’d gone so far as to make all his files innocuous. Obviously, after the incident, he’d made polite inquires as to why there was still a Cardassian on the station and heard the onslaught of rumors. Words like “spy” and “Obsidian Order” tossed about like passengers aboard an tellurian freighter. He’d triple encoded his files, set several trip wires, and made three nonverbal trips that would alert him immediately if any of his files were broken into. He hoped this would be enough, but also decided to speak to the man face to face at some point, if just to ascertain how interested the Cardassian was, and how many of his files actually needed to be fully protected. He wasn’t to concerned with the Starfleet ones, those were encoded anyway with the best the federation has to offer, it was his personal files he was concerned with. 

Nothing was spelled out in as many words. But there were brain scans and medical data that if pieced together word form a fairly cohesive picture of a small boy before and after an illegal procedure. Bashir had seen the tritanium in the Cardassian’s eyes, a tritanium he’d seen in patients eyes, the ones who held on to the very end and did everything they could to survive. He’d seen humanity in its most desperate form, true vulnerability, and watched people come back from that brink. That was the look in the Cardassian’s eyes.

He felt eyes from behind him and recognized the Major’s stride. She wasn’t very pleased with his brash persona and he couldn’t blame her. Actually, none of the bridge crew really liked his naive idealistic act, thought Jadzia seemed amused. They thought him foolish, as though he’d give up in a month from the conditions. If only they knew him they’d realize the necessity of where he was, the protection it afforded him was second to none. He’d fight tooth and nail to keep this job, this safe haven from prying eyes and blood relations.

“Doctor, Jadzia asked me to inform you she’d be unable to accept your dinner invitation for tonight.” The doctor internally winced, Jadzia was the kind of person who’d get suspicious at a lack of pursual, so he’d have to keep it up, even if it felt fake. He shuddered to think of what his colleagues thought of him at this moment. He remembered in his first time on the station staring Odo in the eyes and telling him to hold a girl’s neck. He’d accidentally let slip a little more than he meant but as a result the constable had helped save the girl’s life, so he pegged it down to pressure and pushed it away.

“Ahh, now that’s a shame. That you Major for letting me know, I suppose I’ll have to find another companion for the evening, do you know where Miles might be at the moment?”


	5. Elim

The man sat calmly, reading something while sipping Tarkalean tea. A favorite of his of late. Garak watched him take a last sip before approaching, he could not put off their introduction any longer. If his intel was right certain events were about to transpire and he needed someone who possessed enough intelligence to do what the situation called for. Julian Bashir was the man.

He’d spent his time among the Starfleet archives but there was little he couldn’t have guessed at just from looking at the man. When he read his file he saw a man who was trying his hardest to blend in. He saw a man who, if he hadn’t had a suspicion, he’d never have noticed. A man who wanted to be overlooked by the world. Usually, that meant a secret, and one worth dying for. He’d considered checking Bashir’s quarters but knew the man would have all his files on lockdown. Garak hadn’t been the only one to notice something that day.

“It's Doctor Bashir, isn't it? Of course it is. May I introduce myself?” He had to give the man some credit, the look on his face made him second guess if his suspicion had been simply a trick of the lighting. If he really was dealing with an imbecile.

“Uh...yes. Yes, of course.” The man had obviously figured out some version of who he was and may have actually gotten closer to the truth than most. He was glancing about like a cowardly fool, one who was naive and absolutely screamed cadet. It reminded Garak of his many roles and many lives. Had he fooled people as effortlessly as this man?

“My name is Garak; Cardassian by birth, obviously. The only one of us left on the station, as a matter of fact. So I do appreciate making new friends when I can. You are new to the station, I believe.” This was partial a partial truth. If he could befriend, at least in the public’s eyes, the station’s CMO then he doubted the constable would be likely to turn a blind eye should old acquaintances drop by. Though knowing Odo he’d probably run an investigation just for the chance at some new paperwork.

“I am yes… Though, though I understand you’ve been here quite a while.” This was going to be grueling. He knew how to play the fool to fool the fool, but felt quite foolish. He supposed that as long as they were in public it would be all about appearances, but still, a little banter and understanding couldn’t be too much to ask for. After all, they both understood the rules of the game.

“Ah, you know of me then.”

“Would you care for some of this Tarkalean tea? It's very good.” In truth, he hadn’t expected an answer but did enjoy the sight of the man squirming in the persona he’d built for himself.

“What a thoughtful young man. How nice that we've met.”

“You know... there are some who say you've remained on DS Nine as the... eyes and ears of your fellow Cardassians…” Ah, so that’s where the facade was going. An interesting choice of persona. He’d have to be careful not to betray too much intelligence and too little knowledge. It’s a challenging role, pretending not to know the game and trying to accidentally hit the topic with shot-in-the-dark tactics. Few did it well and again he felt himself praising the man he knew so little about. Though he supposed that would change soon enough.

“You don't say. Doctor, you're not intimating that I'm considered some sort of... "spy," are you?”

“I wouldn't know, Sir.”

“Ah! An open mind. The essence of intellect. As you may also know, I have a clothing shop nearby, so... If you should require any apparel, or merely wish, as I do, for a bit of enjoyable company now and then, I'm at your disposal, Doctor.”

“You're very kind, Mister Garak.”

“Oh, it's just Garak. Plain, simple Garak. And now, good day to you, Doctor... I'm so glad to have made such an interesting new friend today.” He laid his hands on the Doctor’s shoulders, feeling the man tense beneath him. He smirked to himself, thinking of what a gesture would have meant on his homeworld and how none of the inhabitants around him would have understood its significance. Still, now he’d simply have to wait.

 

“Now that was some interesting footwork.” The constable’s voice behind him wasn’t expected, though one wouldn’t have known that from Garak’s lack of response to the remark.

“Ahh, Constable Odo, whatever do I owe the pleasure? Curiosity gotten the best of you yet? Interested in some of my fine merchandise instead of the dreary outfit you conjure for yourself?” The shifter behind him scoffed but stayed put.

“Not many people on this station still remember Cardassian courting procedure. A few Bajorans here and there I’m sure but…”

“But, Constable?”

“But they don’t watch you as I do. I keep tabs on everyone on the station, I’ve read every personnel file. Yours seems to be more rumor than fact Mister Garak. Be aware that I am always watching, especially now that you’ve taken an interest in Doctor Bashir.”

“Constable, you’ve no idea how reassuring that is.”


	6. Julian

“Second degree burns, lacerations a minor concussion... Not much compared to what he's been through before.”

“Before?” Doctor Bashir peeled back the sheet revealing hideous, deliberately designed scars.

“The most recent of these scars is only two, perhaps three years old.”

“Two-and-a-half, actually.” The blonde man turned over slowly, revealing similar ridges to that of the Major. After spending most of his time now around Bajorans he found the ridges a trivial sight whereas they had been novel.

“It's remarkable you lived through this.” Bashir wasn’t blind. He could see the purpose, the calculated reason in the scars. Pain without death.

“It's a Cardassian technique designed to keep you alive.”

Sensing his presence was no longer required Bashir left the room and ran a couple tests, just the usual. Checking the man for pathogens, illnesses, and just confirming he was who he said he was. It gave Bashir a moment to reflect on the actions of the day, while still keeping in mind that the Bajoran in the other room should only be left for a few minutes before he required sleep.

Garak. Now that had been an interesting encounter. He and the man had been circling each other for some time now and he honestly hadn’t expected such a trivial conversation. He’d almost expected the man to simply give him a location and a job in way of blackmail. He’d honestly been expecting something a little more cloak and dagger. He’d hadn’t much experience with it in truth, but everyday conversation threw him a bit more than he’d like to admit. He supposed his secret was still safe so long as the Cardassian didn’t allude to knowing it, but he’d have to be one step ahead in order to keep up with his simple tailor. If he thought this would be easy he had another thing coming for him because one look into that man’s eyes and he knew that the stakes had been raised.

The look in Garak's eyes had been one of condescension. As though the words he spoke were below him, a man of his station should never have said such a thing. He was better than those around him, people were minuscule in comparison to him. That is what Bashir saw and that is what made him anxious. If the man wasn’t even working at full capacity he’d shutter to see him in his element.

He knew that at some point he’d have to talk to him, to drop his act and be left face to face with someone who thought personas were child’s play. His stomach tightened at the thought. He wasn’t sure whether to look forward to it or be daunted by it.

Seeing that there were no immediate threats to the man’s health other than malnutrition and exhaustion Bashir returned to the Captain and Tahna. He took one look at the man and saw the lie. He knew an actor when he saw one, a man who was lying through his teeth.

“I’m sorry, Commander. He needs rest now…” He wondered if the man and Garak could be connected in any way. The man who said he had given up violence but Bashir knew to be plotting something from the contentment he exuded as Sisko left the room. It was the look of a man whose plan was falling into place.

 

His shift had ended and after a query to the computer, he’d located the shifty Cardassian. From the way he was sitting he had a perfect view of the two new arrivals. The Klingon sisters. He’d patched up the Bajoran who had tried to confiscate their weapons and learned their names in turn. Bashir wasn’t surprised to find Garak in the middle of this little mess. Since Tahna’s arrival Bashir had spent some time thinking about all the little coincidences of the day and the arrival of two sets of terrorists, one Bajoran and one Klingon, could not be random. There was something larger going on the Garak knew it.

“And how are you this evening, Mister Garak? Oh, excuse me... It's just plain, simple Garak, you said.” The man smiled at the correction and invited him to sit.

“Plain and simple. Join me, Doctor; enhance my evening.”

“Keeping an eye on the ebb and flow of things, are you?”

“As a clothier, I do interest myself in what the population is wearing from day to day. Klingons have an odd sense of... style, don't you agree?”

“Yes... they do…”

“But intriguing... I say those two... outfits... are worth studying closely... Look.”

The Klingons moved at the exact same time Tahna moved. Julian’s suspicions were confirmed, though there was still the formality of conversation left. The Cardassian knew just as he did that Odo would follow the suspicious characters and all that would be left would be to wait for the situation to play out.

“So Doctor, tell me. What does bring you to the edge of Federation space hmm? Certainly can’t be the food.” Julian allowed a laugh at that, because Quark’s food was definitely laughable, but shook his head.

“Not quite. Though I suspect you pieced as much together yourself.” He was rewarded with a look of mild intrigue and perhaps a glint of the lighting in the Cardassian’s eyes.

“Whatever do you mean?” Julian kept a pleasant smile on his face as he considered his actions carefully.

“Oh, come now Garak.” He said in a manner one would use to admonish children, but kept the tone light. “We both know Doctors don’t go anywhere for the food, we come for the adventure! The excitement! The new frontier! The Federation is made of explorers who do what they do best. What is it you do best Garak?” Garak knew it was a game now. Bashir could keep up the facade as long as he wanted, but they both knew that there were secrets so thick in the air between them they may as well have been the air they were breathing. Though Bashir had enough sense to recognize that Garak’s were from a whole other ballpark.

“Yes yes, you officers. Always running towards a new frontier. I wonder at the idea of a frontier being so alluring as to have people running towards it.” Julian could see how Garak actually would like the conversation to go and wondered if it was too early to concede a small amount of the persona. To court the edge and maybe be able to cross it, because being honest with the one person you should never tell your secrets too seemed like such a paradox that it seemed to appeal to the both of them.

“I suppose there are some who would say officers don’t run towards so much as they run from.” Julian knew he had given Garak a small amount of honesty and the look of surprise that flashed in the man’s eyes was worth the small percentage of the truth. He also knew that that was the only truth he was going to be giving the man for a long time.

“And would you say that you are running from, Doctor, or running towards?” Julian figured one slightly skewed response more and he could call it an evening. Garak obviously knew he was pressing his luck.

“I’m not a man of absolutes Miste- Garak. Perhaps a tad of both, or neither. I could ask the same of yourself as to why you’re here as well but I’m afraid I am going to have to call it a night. This has indeed been a pleasant evening.” Julian rose from his seat but allowed Garak to have the final word.

“Have a lovely evening Doctor. I do hope to see you again soon.”


	7. Elim

Garak smiled as he browsed the latest news from Cardassia, skimming the important articles and running ciphers on the innocuous ones. He hadn’t faced a true enigma in a long time and was contented to decipher two things at once: Dukat’s role in Pa’Dar’s arms inquiry and Julian Bashir.

He had made little progress with the man since their last encounter, which was to be expected. Garak was surprised he had let the quip about running slip so early in their acquaintanceship but supposed this lapse in information was to make up for it. The most he had seen of the Doctor was in passing or light gossip during breakfast at the replimat. Beyond that, he was being stonewalled.

Switching from the Cardassia Prime news feed to the passenger logs of the incoming ships, Garak noticed something interesting. When skimming the manifest he brought up pictures of all registered passengers and saw a startlingly grey face among the earringed bajorans and crisp Starfleet. A young boy with a Bajoran parent was about to board the station, and notably, relieve him of the title “Last Cardassian On Board,” if only for a short time.

Setting the feeds aside he rose from his cot and went in search of clothes. He had to make it to the replimat in time to see the arrival of the shuttle and couldn’t afford to be late on account of being held up at the shop. That meant an early start. As the only one of his species on board, there was no way he could pass up the chance to greet another Cardassian, even if he’d noticed how he too wore an earring.

It occurred to him that the boy was one of the orphans from the occupation and made sure to take his padd with him to the replimat. Sometimes orphans’ tragic backstories were nothing more than tactical moves and after reading about some interesting political moves taking place on his homeworld, Garak sensed a rat.

 

It was around midday that Garak finished up his shop work and decided an early lunch was in order, so as not to miss the incoming shuttle. It was just his luck that he was arriving with the traffic, grabbing a drink and a seat, he sat down to wait.

Sipping his Rokassa juice and skimming through the latest article published by Doctor Bashir, Garak awaited the shuttle. It appeared that in Bashir’s time apart from his prying eyes he had managed to develop a vaccine for one of Bajor’s more common strains of Ug’wli, a nasty virus often contracted after spending time near the coasts. Garak was unsurprised to find that Bashir had ample time to publish several newspapers in scattered scientific journals since his arrival on the station, three of which has no immediate tie to Bajor. The Doctor was contributing an astonishing amount of information to the medical community, but Garak posited a guess that the frequency with which he published was measured. He felt sure that if he was to break into Bashir’s terminal he would find a backlog of at least two months worth of findings, all of which were incredible breakthroughs in their own right, and none of which were published with the speed in which they were discovered.

Garak knew Bashir was hiding an intellect, the naive bravado gave that much away, but the why was still a mystery and it puzzled the tailor in a way he wasn’t used to. Rarely was Garak on the other side of the glass looking in, and for him to be curious about Starfleet no less was a low he hadn’t expected to reach in this lifetime.

As an operative of the order, Garak noted his most interesting missions, even most challenging, came from specifically non-Federation worlds. With the exception of Vulcan of course, because he was ever so fond of contradictory race politics and xenophobia in such an enlightened species. Any time the federation was involved his orders had been tedious bordering on pathetic. Their wants were so trivial, there was no flair, no true meaning in their actions.

So for Garak to await his next meeting with the Starfleet doctor with baited breath was something of a conundrum. Inadvertently, he may have found his prime candidate for protection, an entirely suitable companion with the skills to save his life if the situation arose, and Garak had no doubt it would. Still, he found it would probably be necessary to step up their interactions at some point if he truly wanted to create the context of “safe house” again. It was worth thinking over at least. 

Switching from Bashir’s latest publication to the Cardassian news feeds again Garak took another drink from his mug. To his surprise and luck, the man of the hour sought him out that morning, seating himself across from Garak with his standard drink: the too sweet Tarkalean Tea.

“Tarkalean tea again, Doctor?” Bashir grinned as he sat down, it was one of the few times the Doctor had chosen to sit with him. Usually, it was Garak who had to intrude.

“Yes, and I believe you're drinking Rokassa juice, aren't you, Garak --”

“How did you know?”

“The odor is unmistakable.” Bashir made a face that won him a light smile. He’d been told on a previous occasion that Rokassa juice smelled strongly of fish. He was also aware that several species were prone to adverse effects from the smell, such as vomiting; a piece of medical advice gained from the resident chief of surgery.

“So it is. Rokassa juice soothes my nerves. I had a very demanding customer today. A Bajoran engineer who comes into the shop constantly, just to plague me…” Garak knew he was baiting the Doctor slightly. He wasn’t exactly known for being forthcoming on his daily events of any nature, no matter how purposefully innocuous. 

“I've always wondered about that... about who your steady customers are... I can't imagine Bajorans frequenting a shop run by a Cardassian…” Bashir wore a smug look, like he had stumbled onto a thread that could undo the entire ensemble. It was laughable, the level of smoke and mirrors they had to talk through. What he really meant was that he was aware of the local prejudice, though he’d have to be blind to miss it.

“I like to think my expertise and willingness to serve overcome any general resentment my clientele may have.” 

“Ahhh. Perhaps your expertise and willingness to serve go so far as to establish a certain... trust... between you and your customers…” He supposed this was what he got for baiting the young Doctor; startlingly vague accusations pointing towards a previous life both men knew Garak wouldn’t admit to having lived. 

“Trust is very important…”

“And once they trust you, they're much more open with you... they... tell you things…”

Bringing up trust was clever, and doing so in a completely refutable way was even more so. In most people, a lack of argument was a weakness and yet somehow the Doctor turned it into a strength. A tactic used to blend into his surroundings. One Garak wasn’t supposed to have seen through. Had Bashir actually constructed a more subtle, defensible stance on Garak’s presence here he wouldn’t have been as impressed. He was looking forward to winning this game through attrition, not brute force.

“Really, Doctor... must we play this game so often? I'm no more a "spy" than you are a... a…”

“...Doctor.” Bashir was all smiles it seemed, a pleasant enough trait in others, but a seemingly annoying one at the moment simply because Garak knew them to be fake. 

“I'm afraid you really do let your imagination run away with you. What else can I say to convince you that I'm just --”

“-- plain and simple Garak?”

“Precisely.”

Garak glanced around at his surroundings and was relieved to see the shuttle had arrived on schedule. Seeing the boy up close was a necessity, gathering a piece of DNA would be ideal, but gaining some attention would be perfect. His companion had noticed his lapse in attention so Garak made sure to divert his attention towards the distractor.

“Now, there's something you don't see every day…”

The boy saw Garak and looked apprehensive. Strange. Most war orphans Garak had interacted with had wanted nothing more than the approval of their elders, seeking to stowaway on cargo ships in hopes of returning to Cardassia Prime if they behaved correctly. Evidently, this boy was not among the majority. 

Apparently, Bashir determined it would be fair to assume his facade perceptive enough to comment on what had transpired.

“Well that was odd... do you know him?”

“On the contrary... I've never seen him before in my life,” Bashir tilted his head, as Garak stood up and approached the boy.

“I hope I'm not intruding, but I couldn't help noticing… what a handsome young man you have here…”

Placing his hand on the boy, Garak found himself on the receiving end of a decidedly hateful stare from what he knew to be the boy’s adoptive father. Carefully he shifted his hand towards the boy’s hair when he suddenly found it impeded by teeth. Having pulled free enough evidence Garak allowed his surprise to be marked by a yell of distaste. 

The boy fled back to his father and Bashir was instantly at his side, inspecting the wound. Garak knew it to be superficial, and the pain was nothing more than a surprise he could have easily covered up had he not wanted to draw attention.

“Come with me Garak, I’d like to have that looked over in the infirmary.” 

Bashir watched him weigh the options before sighing and allowing himself to be maneuvered further into Federation territory.


	8. Julian

After having witnessed the turn of events, Julian came to the conclusion that Garak had placed himself smack in the middle of what was going to turn out to be some Cardassian political fiasco. Garak’s every move served a purpose and Julian was more than aware of the fact that body language played a significant role in Cardassian culture. So for Garak to have placed his hand on the boy, he must have been absolutely sure about what he was doing and Julian was not looking forward to having to play dumb about being aware.

Since Garak had begun tracking his movements, Bashir had made a point to look farther into Cardassian culture than he had on the star ship that had carried him to the station what felt like a lifetime ago. He had several morning alerts and articles that he read in the morning, covering everything from Starfleet medical advancements to Cardassian politics. After having caught himself up on key players during the Occupation as well as rudimentary Cardiassian government, Julian wondered at the sight that was about to unfold. 

Garak had made some passing comments, which they both knew he was obligated to pass along to Sisko so long as they pertained to active station affairs. He’d accepted the mild scolding Garak had given him for passing the information along, and putting him on the spot, but if he had to guess, the Cardassian was more amused with him than anything else. It was obvious to the both of them, once Dukat had involved himself, that something was amiss, especially with how the civilian leaders were acting back on Cardassia. 

Looking at the book in his hands Bashir sighed, he’d been reading the same paragraph for the last several minutes but was too preoccupied over his predicament to really pay it any mind. He supposed Cardassian literature wasn’t exactly the most interesting, it came from the mindset of a people who served institutions with the same passion humans served each other. It was evident in both Garak and Dukat’s demeanor that they each treated their actions as though they were for some larger goal, something bigger than himself at stake. Bashir considered asking Garak more about Dukat, though he wasn’t too keen after having watched Dukat and Sisko tiptoe around each other. 

Admittedly, he probably shouldn’t have interrupted. Setting his book down, Bashir stood to fix himself something to drink while he thought. Watching Sisko was nothing like watching Garak. When Garak was interrupted, especially with something that was either a mundane comment to protect his cover, or an irrelevant piece of information, his body language became stiffer, as though he wasn’t amused at the topic change. He let it happen only because for him to be impolite would be a step towards honesty that neither he nor Bashir were willing to approach. If Garak shared a meal with him at the replimat and Bashir misdirected the conversation too often, he was met with a sigh and a resigned posture. Sisko, however, was different.

In fact, he had sat back and let Bashir run his mouth, not with an air of annoyance, but of controlled curiosity. He was a good captain and a good man, someone Bashir respected entirely, but when the man recognized that the people he worked with couldn’t always keep their personal opinions under control, he had to level headedness to at least pretend he was in control of the situation. Watching Dukat seek Sisko’s help out of Julian’s questions was laughable in that the captain would never let such an evasive adversary get off that easily.

There was a distinct bing from his terminal that signaled an incoming transmission. After logging in and scrolling to the appropriate page he realized his mother had sent him another message asking when he would be returning back to Earth, or when he would be available for the both of them to come visit. It was the fourth message he had received in the last two and a half months. He had made a point to wait a couple days before answering, making sure to publish a new study a day or two after receiving and email in order to claim the excuse that he had been so caught up in his research he hadn’t seen the message, and then to also make a point of referencing several upcoming appointments in his foreseeable future. He had no intention of seeing his parents for as long as he was willing to hold them off. Even then, he had no intention of them stepping foot on the station, going so far as to say that his coworkers were the type to pry, and that coming here would raise some questions. He had hoped that would be enough of a deterrent but he supposed he would have to wait and see how long he could stonewall them before they grew restless of excuses and he wound up on a transport back to Earth.

Bashir’s hope was that the next time he saw his parents would be at a medical conference or some other form of business related trip so that he could reasonably see them under a work related pretense, but also have an excuse for not staying. His relationship with his parents was a strained one, and not something he thought about if he could avoid it.

Of course, there was a time their relationship was nothing but pleasant. But that was before he told his parents about his admission to starfleet, only to be sat down at the kitchen table while his father laid down incriminating evidence before him. Even at 16 he had known what the brain scans meant, though his father’s butchering of medical terminology as he tried to explain the procedure would have made him laugh if he had been in a forgiving mood.

He hadn’t been.

Still, the choices he had made were his own, and even if his parents had robbed him of plausible deniability, he supposed that wasn’t any worse than having stolen his identity from him. After passing the entrance exam with relative ease, even the psych test wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be, though he supposed it wasn’t fair to test him on a new fear that he had only acquired a month beforehand and of which the proctors weren’t aware of, he realized he was going to have to have a system for getting through the academy. Every test he took was carefully planned so that he succeeded or failed just the correct amount of times to place him ahead of his peers, but not unbelievably so. If it hadn’t been for the enhancements he wouldn’t have been able to pull it off. Though he wouldn’t have needed the deception if it wasn’t for the enhancements in the first place.

It was something he tried not to dwell on too much. He had a career now, a life in a whole other part of the galaxy. He supposed it was going to get all the more interesting now that he had somehow caught the attention of the station spy. However, when he did eventually lose that game, he knew he was no real match for Garak, he hoped the deal they struck wouldn’t cost him too much of his life. So long as he didn’t have to compromise his oath as a doctor, he wouldn’t mind when the time came for small concessions behind closed doors. It was a long way off, Garak wasn’t in any sort of rush, but they both knew it was inevitable. 

 

“Yes, exactly what are we trying to find out about them?” Bashir turned to look at Garak expectantly. He’d been exceptionally vague about everything, and while Bashir was fairly certain he knew what was going on, he couldn’t let all of his newfound Cardassian knowledge color their interactions. The ball was in Garak’s court right now.

“The circumstances surrounding the young man's adoption. It took place about eight years ago,” Garak replied sounding almost annoyed. As thought it was obvious. It wasn’t helping that he was all too eager to confront the Bajoran caretaker.

“The Cardassians were still here. You'll never find anything from back then.” She told them, probably hoping they would leave. After all, it had to be an inconvenience to her, and something out of her depth most likely. She didn’t seem the most helpful, though that was thanks to his companion more than himself Bashir supposed. He wondered idly if Garak ever tired of being unwelcome everywhere.

“The Cardassians are quite meticulous about keeping records, Madame. They've taught many worlds including this one how to keep records. I find it difficult to believe that none exist from that time period. Weren't computer entries made on a regular basis?” Garak was poking a Gorn with a stick and he know it. From the look on his face he was enjoying baiting her.

“I can't tell you. I wasn't a volunteer then. I was in the Underground.” Julian fought to keep himself from rolling his eyes. Of course this is what happens, Garak decides to pick a fight with a race his had kept in essential slavery and rub it in their faces. 

“Really? Perhaps we've met before.” Garak got suspiciously closer and Bashir decided that was as far as he’d let him go. Asking after the records was excusable, outright taunting someone who’s help they needed wasn’t.

“Do you mind if we check your computer?” Julian asked, diverting the conversation before Garak could say something worse.

“Our computers don't work,” she said brusquely. “And I can't get a technician to come out. We're not exactly a top priority.”

Garak seemed to take that into consideration before offering, “Perhaps I can be of service.”

“You know how to fix computers?” Julian offered a tone of accusatory surprise, one he knew Garak was expecting.

Garak was met with a sceptical look as he approached the console. It was the closest either of them had come to actually toeing a line of admitting they knew more than they were letting on. He hadn’t expected Garak to offer anything upfront for a while longer, at least a couple months. But a proficiency in computers wasn’t easily shrugged off.

“I dabble with isolinear data subprocessors.” Garak paused but he had already began to work effortlessly. “It's a hobby of mine,” he finished lamely, in Bashir’s opinion. They both knew there was more.

“I continue to underestimate you, Garak,” he remarked, watching as a device had made its way to Garak’s eye. Julian didn’t recognize it immediately and supposed Garak carried more things on his person that Bashir was likely to ever know.

“No more difficult than sewing on a button, actually,” commented Garak, still attempting to affect an air of nonchalance. 

However, it appeared that while he worked, Julian just couldn’t help but to stand in the way while Garak pushed past him in his sifting of files. Loath as he was to admit it, he only recognized about a quarter of what he’d seen Garak do. Sure, part of the trick of the technology was that, Bajoran or Cardassian, Garak had more practical experience with it in recent years, but even the parts that Julian could recognize, he knew the tailor was accurately locating information with an ease that rivaled Julian’s ability with a medical database.

Absentmindedly, or perhaps entirely on purpose, Garak removed the glass from his face and handed it to Bashir without so much as a backwards glance, still wrapped up in the chase of elusive information. 

“You carry this everywhere, do you?”

“A simple tailoring tool,” he hummed in response, “you'd be surprised how often someone needs a pair of pants let out-” Garak shifted abruptly, “Damn. It's not there.”

Julian figured that he would settle everything back on the runabout. Garak could only be elusive about this for so long, given that he was basically coaching Julian on precisely how to approach Dukat once they connected all the pieces. So he would stand here on Bajor, watching as an exiled spy tries to piece together a puzzle in the midst of several orphans that seem to have gathered around them, and say nothing. All Julian had to do was wait for the first set of locked doors that he and Garak were bound to end up behind and badger him there. That’s to say, exactly what Garak is expecting to do.


End file.
